


Tremor

by A_Candle_For_Sherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Finding courage, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Hand Tremor, M/M, just a tiny thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-18 00:00:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11862405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Candle_For_Sherlock/pseuds/A_Candle_For_Sherlock
Summary: Written for a Tumblr request: Sherlock helping John with his tremor.





	Tremor

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Тремор](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13629948) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> Russian translation also available here: https://ficbook.net/readfic/6494795

John Watson keeps his heart well covered, but the tremor exposes him, over and over. It’s only natural; no one can keep so much inside without it getting out somehow. Still, he’d regained his stride, his spark, his instinct to protect and his confidence that it was wanted. It seemed cruel that the one thing Sherlock couldn’t give him back was his secrets.

Then again, had he wanted to keep his secrets, he shouldn’t have chosen Sherlock and Baker Street, Sherlock thinks, as he watches the hand tremble sharply at John’s side while John stands half-awake by the kitchen window in the grey morning, waiting for the electric kettle to boil; as he stretches and curls his fingers, his breath coming short in frustration.

But John had admired him, which was unexpected; John had moved in with him, and stranger yet, stayed; and out of all unprecedented things, John had begun staring at him furtively, longingly, over newspapers and in cabs and across crowded rooms. And last night, after Sherlock had met one of those dark, sweet looks squarely, entirely by accident, and blushed to the tips of his ears, John had said, “Sherlock?” in a tone he’d never heard before, soft and startled. When Sherlock couldn’t look at him at all, John had taken his hand. He’d said, “You’re blushing,” and, “It’s okay, it's nice,” with an embarrassed laugh.

Sherlock had only managed, "Am I?", but clung to the hand, and John had kissed him. And smiled at the sound he’d made, and kissed him more.

So things were altogether different, this morning, and yet they’d been exactly the same thus far: the sounds of John at the sink, putting his morning self together, splashing his face and brushing his teeth, while Sherlock came awake slowly, listening; the sight of John in the kitchen in the striped jumper, hair combed damply into submission, when Sherlock emerged at last in his dressing gown, and curled himself up on the sofa to look his fill and wonder. But now John was standing in the kitchen staring at their empty mugs, with a twitching hand, and a miserable pinch to his beautiful mouth, and that was wrong.

He has chosen, from the first day, never to mention the tremor, no matter how clear John’s distress, no matter how it pained him to pretend he didn’t see. But it comes to him now that since he has been kissed, he is probably allowed to indulge the instinct to touch. He gets up, goes into the kitchen on noiseless bare feet, so that John jumps a little when his hand slides around John’s small, warm, shivering palm and holds on tight. “Good morning,” he says, carefully, knowing John likes that, likes little courtesies and familiar greetings; “All right?”

And after a moment John’s surprised eyes soften and round into pleasure, and he says, “Am now,” and squeezes Sherlock’s hand. “What’s this, then?”

“Well, you kissed me,” Sherlock says, gaining confidence. “I thought I was allowed.”

“I think you are,” John laughs, and, Oh. Had he not expected this?

“Did you think I wouldn’t want to?”

“I didn’t know. The men I’ve kissed didn’t talk about it, mornings after.”

“Imbeciles,” says Sherlock, privately incredulous, furious, but keeping his voice quite calm. He tightens his hold on John’s hand, which has just trembled again; strokes the small fingers gently, and John blinks at him, and the shadow in his eyes slides back again into sunlit blue. It’s ridiculously lovely, John glowing in their kitchen, holding his hand.

“Idiots,” John agrees, slowly. Tugs on him. Sherlock comes closer.

“And you know I’m no idiot,” he counters, watching John fight for courage, the pulse jumping in his throat. “I’m a genius.”

“Remarkable, you are.” A sudden sparkle of amusement, through the fear. “I did say so.”

“You know my methods,” Sherlock says, continuing the joke, but it’s also the truest thing in the world, “better than anyone. What would a genius do now?”

“He’d kiss me again,” says John, whose hand has gone quite steady.

“Only if you’d kiss him back.”

“I would.”

They do.


End file.
